


By Any Other Name

by OctoberSpirit



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: A Tiny Bit of Typical Night Vale Weirdness, Carlos Does Science, Cecil Might be Human or Inhuman, Dorks, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Gen, Gershwin Though Seriously, Grocery Shopping, Humor, M/M, Middle Names, Not-Quite Blackmail, Partial Broadcast, Post-Episode: e033 Cassette, Science, Tattooed Cecil, gershwin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSpirit/pseuds/OctoberSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cecil has a middle name, Steve Carlsberg has finally found an opportunity, and Carlos is, in fact, a scientist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InitialA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InitialA/gifts).



“Steve Carlsberg.”

“Cecil Gershwin Palmer.”

Cecil freezes. He doesn’t turn around. There is no reason to turn around because he is not embarrassed. He is merely…surprised. To hear his name in _full,_ like this. In a grocery store.

In the dry, grating voice of—urgh— _Steve Carlsberg._

Cecil realizes that he has not resumed movement, and he darts his hand out toward the shelf, examining the resulting box with great care. Lots of spices, whatever it is. Vegetarian-friendly. May contain wheat.

“Hm,” says Cecil, putting it back.

“Risky business,” says Steve Carlsberg, suddenly at his side, examining another bright row of boxes. “All that spice. Hard on the palate.”

“I’d be more concerned with the Sheriff’s Secret Police, if you’re that cavalier about wheat and its by-products.” Cecil presses his lips into a line. He hadn’t intended to respond. To engage in conversation with—urgh— _Steve Carlsberg._ Now he’s done it.

Steve Carlsberg pounces, metaphorically. “That’s so you, Cecil, so in line with legality. Don’t you ever wonder if the laws are right? If there’s not another angle to consider?”

“Uh-huh,” says Cecil. It’s more of a grunt. He attempts to sidestep, but Steve Carlsberg follows, shopping basket prim on his arm. Cecil hopes he will never pick up that basket, then resolves to make sure that he never will. 

“You could be a rallying point for change, you know,” Steve Carlsberg continues. “Don’t get me wrong, but you always come off as a sort of blind follower, and that’s dangerous because people _listen_ to you.”

Cecil grabs another box. “Uh-huh,” he says again. It’s too late to simply refuse to engage, so now he’s stuck hoping that Steve Carlsberg will get bored. Which, considering what he knows of Steve Carlsberg, is not a very likely scenario. Cecil may have to rethink his strategy. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of earplugs.

In a fit of inspiration, Cecil spins, knocking them both off-balance, then recovers enough to powerwalk down the aisle. Steve Carlsberg—urgh—half-jogs to keep up with him.

“If you were interested,” he’s saying, “I’ve been working on something pretty big. I’d love to get the word out, but I just don’t have that sort of reach. And people in this town are somewhat reluctant to take me seriously, what with the constant…” 

“Steve _Carls_ berg,” Cecil supplies, despite himself.

“Yes, exactly,” says Steve Carlsberg. He’s reaching into his shoulder bag, an opportunity that Cecil seizes, cutting sharp left through the freezer section.

Steve Carlsberg, in an uncharacteristically well-planned move, has anticipated this, and has hooked his arm through Cecil’s basket. “Pardon,” says Steve Carlsberg. Cecil’s nose wrinkles; his tattoos itch as they retreat up his arm. “Must have caught hold of yours by mistake. There we go!” He produces a sheaf of papers, typewritten, held together with various paperclips. “This is a big one. Goes all the way through City Hall. This next election, I’m telling you, Cecil—”

“Uh- _huh,_ ” says Cecil, just a trifle more violently. “I’m afraid our next few shows are pretty solid, but I… _appreciate_ your… _input._ Steve Carlsberg.”

Steve tips his head to the left, frowning. “Is that so? Well, that’s a shame, Cecil Gershwin Palmer.”

Cecil stops. Steve stops.

Cecil embraces a number of violent fantasies, staring all the while through a row of reduced-fat ham-and-cheese Hot Pockets.

“Why the formality?” he finally asks, voice dropping into smooth radio tones. “How long have we known each other, Steve Carlsberg?”

Steve Carlsberg smiles; he looks like a trout. “Oh, a long time. It’s hard to keep track. Especially with all those broken clocks, huh?”

Cecil resists the urge to touch his watch. Perfect Carlos and—urgh—Steve Carlsberg should never resolve in his mind all at once. It’s too much conflicting emotion, for starters. The Council would probably not be pleased. “Just call me Cecil,” he somehow manages, although the grating edge doesn’t quite filter out.

The fish-smile widens. “If you’ll call me Steve.”

“Steve,” says Cecil, with a genial nod. “Carlsberg,” he finishes, under his breath.

“Cecil,” allows Steve Carlsberg. Then, “Gershwin.” And, “Palmer.”

They stare at each other for a series of moments. Cecil notes that the freezer section is a poor choice for a stand-off. He’s a desert-dweller, as is Steve Carlsberg, and the cold is most unwelcome by daylight. “As I said,” says Cecil, finally cracking, “the show is pretty much booked at the moment. But since this is clearly important to you”—as insane conspiracy theories are to all insane conspiracy theorists—“I’ll read it over”—while drinking, moderately to heavily, depending on the content—“and maybe our resident scientist would be willing to”—restrain Cecil from doing something rash, talk him down, listen to any inebriated ranting that might result from this encounter—“rearrange some of the science content to free up a space for your story.” Cecil smiles as punctuation. He’s aiming for _charming_ but fears it’s fallen more toward _intestinal parasites._ But then, he’s eaten gas station sushi that is easier to stomach than—urgh—Steve _Carls_ berg.

Steve Carlsberg beams, more troutlike than ever, and smacks Cecil between the shoulder blades, which he despises. His glasses slip down his nose from the impact. “Sounds great, Ceec,” says Steve The-Government-Is-Out-To-Get-Us Carlsberg. “I really appreciate that. You’re not a bad guy.”

“Uh-huh,” says Cecil. He is counting backwards in modified Sumerian. It’s not really helping, but he persists.

“Well, gotta run, but it was great talking to you. We’ll have to grab coffee, catch up sometime.”

“Great,” mutters Cecil.

“Neat!” says Steve Carlsberg.

-

When Cecil finally steps up to the register, he worries his credit card between his fingers as the girl behind the counter rings up his groceries.

“Also,” he says, just before she reads his total, “I’m afraid I sort of lost my temper while I was in the freezer aisle. Very unsightly. I’m very sorry. If you could add thirty-six boxes of reduced-fat ham-and-cheese Hot Pockets to my bill? Again, very sorry. Thanks. Yes, you too.”

-

Carlos is taking too long at the lab, so Cecil abandons their booth at Big Rico’s and shows up at the front door, instead. “Cecil!” says Carlos, removing his goggles. They leave a distinct impression around his eyes. “Sorry, I texted, it’ll still be a few—”

“Steve _Carlsberg,_ ” spits Cecil, head thunking the doorframe.

“Oh,” says Carlos, and “uh-oh,” and “come in.”

“Steve Carlsberg,” laments Cecil, after Carlos has bullied him into a lab coat and goggles and warned him to stay five feet clear at all times. “The nerve, to accost me in the grocery store! To use such a personal subject against me! All to further his delusions! As though _he_ is Night Vale’s sole voice of reason!”

“He isn’t its Voice,” says Carlos, hands steady as he drips something green into a beaker. The clear liquid fizzes with each little drop. _“You’re_ its Voice. You’re the central rhythm of this town.” He keeps his eyes on his work at all times, so he misses Cecil’s spectacular blush, which is probably for the best, all things considered. “People listen to you, really listen. He envies that.”

“He used my middle name against me.”

Carlos half-smiles. “I like your middle name.” 

“No,” says Cecil. “And that’s not the point. He’s not allowed to have something on me. He can’t just drop by and shout my middle name whenever he wants his crazy theories on the air. Like, go get your own radio broadcast, right?”

“Right,” agrees Carlos.

Cecil snorts. “As if.”

“All right, then,” says Carlos, leaning close to his phone. “Ten drops produce significant reaction; twenty percent of solution lost to gaseous form in thirty seconds. Gas gathering in small cloudlike structures on ceiling, difficult to measure or count due to rapid, almost lifelike movements. So, what do you think you’ll do about him?”

Cecil steeples his gloved fingers, frowning. “I want his middle name,” he says.

“Oh,” says Carlos. He looks faintly surprised behind his goggles. “That’s not a bad move. I was sort of expecting to have to talk you out of something.” He gestures somewhere in the vicinity of _left._ “His paperwork is still in the filing cabinet.”

“His paperwork?”

“Yeah. I surveyed a bunch of people in my first couple weeks. You volunteered about five times; you remember.”

“But I didn’t know that _Steve Carlsberg_ did.” Cecil practically sprints across the lab, making a beeline for Carlos’ office. He has just made the door when he hears Carlos yelp, followed by the muffled tinkle of breaking glass. Cecil pivots and surveys the scene, which mainly consists of a Carlos-shaped flock of tiny, faintly purple clouds.

Cecil rolls up his sleeves. “Need a hand, dear?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” answers Carlos, in the voice of a man who is drowning in marshmallows while attempting to maintain some remnants of dignity. Somehow, it is highly attractive.

Cecil swoons and prepares to do battle.

-

Later—much later—as Carlos is combing clouds from his hair and Cecil is trying not to ogle, they shift through Carlos’ dark green filing cabinet. Each folder is printed with a familiar name, and some contain only one or two pages while others are stuffed with a novel’s worth. Cecil’s curiosity aches over his own, but they are in the wrong drawer for that. In matters of science, Carlos keeps an almost-neurotic order.

 _Carlsberg, Steven_ is on the thicker side of average, his folder full but not quite stuffed. Cecil nabs it as Carlos shakes bits of cloud from his sleeves, pawing through the first few pages until he finds the preliminary paperwork.

“Well?” asks Carlos, after several silent moments in which Cecil’s eyes track left and right across the page. 

Cecil shakes his head. “Useless. Totally average. His parents must have seen this coming.” If only Cecil’s mother had taken similar precautions. “Now what?” he sighs, head thunking the cabinet.

“Well,” offers Carlos, “I mean, I guess you could always make something up.”

Cecil’s head shoots up; his eyes are gleaming. Carlos takes one look and hastily backtracks.

“But that would be really unprofessional; I don’t know why I even—”

“That’s _brilliant.”_ Cecil swoops in and kisses Carlos with the type of kiss he reserves for special occasions. Carlos flails, still half-tangled in protests, but a few seconds in and he slows his movements, content to tangle himself with Cecil, instead.

Cecil, of course, prefers it this way.

-

“And with that, dear Listeners, it seems that time has escaped us again, like so much sand from a shattered hourglass. You scoop it up, only to find that it slips through your fingers and leaves you with blood and glass shards in your skin. And yet…does that not make the time spent holding it more precious, to know how fleeting a moment truly is? To know it is not really yours to hold, but only yours to _experience?_ Perhaps, Listeners. Perhaps not. Time is a greater mystery than we know.

“Stay tuned next for a short presentation narrated by our very own Intern Alana, and submitted by Steve Penelope Carlsberg. It’s great to see our citizens getting involved in the community, don’t you think? I’m sure the presentation will be very informative.

“Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cecil's file is not, in fact, in the dark green filing cabinet. Cecil's file has evolved into a separate, locked, dark purple filing cabinet. Some of the files are broadcast transcripts. Cecil is not alone in his obsession. Carlos keeps the key around his neck.
> 
> My headcanons are getting out of control.
> 
> InitialA dropped this story idea into a Facebook conversation. I decided I wanted it. She said to go for it. XD I have the best friends.
> 
> Come find me at octoberspirit.tumblr.com if you'd like to tumbl with me. *waggles eyebrows*


End file.
